POETRY ON MEDIUM
Forgotten
Death is a lonely road
Her hair hangs in tangles
face crinkly with time
bones at odd angles
hands covered in grime.
She wept for this loss
while still in her prime
and prayed to the Cross
for her caretaker’s crime.
Her lungs have no air
her eyes have no light.
Her body is bare
her soul has no fight.
All functions now cease
yet dreaming still.
Resting in peace
she feels no ill will.
Author’s note: I am extremely fortunate to live in a country where the elderly are respected, loved, and cared for by their families… right up to the end. But it isn’t the same everywhere. I remember my grandmother being sent off to a “home” when I was a teenager and no one ever visited her or spoke of her again. And now, as I grow older and start to wonder what will happen when I reach “that stage,” these thoughts frighten me, not just for myself but for all my friends and family “of a certain age.” If this poem changes anyone’s…
